


come just as you are (to me)

by stellarisms



Series: it goes like this (the minor fall, the major lift)。 [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Nonbinary Character, Other, Side Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarisms/pseuds/stellarisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Acceptance is the key to be truly free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come just as you are (to me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daphbpl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphbpl/gifts).



> Written for the [shingeki-no-santa](http://shingeki-no-santa.tumblr.com/) fanwork exchange and - while it fits into the "[it goes like this (the minor fall, the major lift)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/939620)" universe - can be read as a standalone piece about how everyone's favorite Sniff-Sniff loyal oversized puppy Squad Leader Mike and everyone's favorite smarmy nonbinary darling Squad Leader Nanaba finally Figured It Out and Got (It) Together at long last :)

 

The first glimpse, the first encounter, meant nothing at the time.

On his way to Erwin’s office to drop off a bit of mail, Mike never noticed Nanaba. 

He never noticed them sweeping past on their way to the training grounds.  

He never noticed the bounce in their step, the sidelong glance, on his way to meet Zoë and Erwin at the end of the hallway.

He never noticed the tiny tilted swell of a smile that spread over their epicene features at seeing the recently-named Squad Leader that day.

Nor had Mike ever noticed, in all the days previous, they had crossed paths many times before the memories form and reform in belated measure.

 

* * *

 

(Heading in opposite directions, with unexpressed purpose, they were not the same and never would be.

But in the week to follow, he would learn that “different” was not analogous to dangerous.

And that “different” was exactly what Mike had been looking for.)

 

* * *

 

He went by two identities, two names, which defined him as a person.

To his parents, to the mountaineers who wandered the vagrant lands leading along the Wall outskirts, he was _Michael_. 

Reverent to the lands they hunted on. 

Resilient and self-reliant from a young age. 

Respectful to every individual of all sizes and statuses, too tall to walk through doors without growing accustomed to lowering his head through passages and doorways yet never too tall or too old to entertain the local villages’ children by playing his lute and reciting funny folktales. 

The quietest and eldest son of the stalwart Zacharias family tribe, however peculiar his uncanny sense of smell and interest in Old World mythology. 

To his trainees and comrades – especially his roommates Nile and Erwin and his closest friend Zoë – he was _Mike_.

Talkative only when approached by the right people.

Terse only when approached with the wrong topic of conversation.

Trademarked by his massive frame, his incredible stamina during their toughest drills which never seemed to deter him from offering towels and freshwater fetched from the canteen for every trainee who stumbled over to his side of the bench and settled down to catch their breath.

The strongest and most supportive cadet of the 99th Trainee Squad, however unusual his attachment to Erwin and Zoë throughout those three years and beyond.

Which of the two identities belonged to him more?

Which of the two mattered more to him?

The answer to both those questions, in the end, was neither.

Mike was Mike by convenience and by chosen distinction by their Instructor – since they already had, according to Ramirez, a Mikael – though enlistment papers used his legal name, but either was more than fine by him.

 

* * *

 

(For Mike, there’s never been anything in between when it came to opposites.

Coffee or tea.  Sweet or unsweetened.  Yes or no.   Stay or go.

For Michael – for Mike, too – there’s never been anything in between.)

 

* * *

 

Their first conversation happens while Mike lies in one of the Legion’s infirmary cots, waking to a world of fuzzyheaded sensations and thoughts waiting to be voiced.

“You’re the new Medic,” is the first thing Mike recalls asking the sharpening outline that hovers at his bedside, “aren’t you?”

“Yep.”  His blurred vision struggles to refocus (such were the aftereffects of falling off your horse in the middle of an excursion) while his olfactory glands make some attempt to compensate.  Pride and humility.  Dueling scents, wafting from the Medic’s cool hands unraveling gauze bandages.  “That’s me.  Name’s Nanaba.  Doctor Silverstein’s newest intern.  Not so new to the Scouting Legion, though.”

“How long?”  Sniffing the air around Nanaba is effortless.  Casual, not a trace of conceit.  Translucence.  “Just curious.”

When they shift away from him, Mike realizes it’s to allow themself more room to stand.

When they look down at him, Mike doesn’t feel helpless or belittled – or afraid.

When they smile at him, Mike remembers the connecting creeks that met in his hometown; he remembers the mainstay of their cluster highland community, the rush and swell of it traveling from the Walls’ dams, the changes it brought to their itinerant lifestyle and the invading tribes that swept away the land’s fertility and its domesticated inhabitants in effect.

The reason he joined the military.

 

* * *

 

(Nanaba’s smile reflects, refracts, like sunshine filtered through freshwater.

Mike sees, then, with such clarity that all the sardonicism leaves his parched throat.

 _Fourteen weeks and counting_ , Nanaba announces, a steady pulsing energy that Mike feels from someone for the first time rather than smelling it from them and it’s **strange** , so very strange, but not the least bit unpleasant to realize, _right around the time Commander Smith gave you and Hange Zoë official Squad Leader rank._ )

 

* * *

 

From the first to the last, what charms Mike into falling for them isn’t their looks.

Of course, he would be a liar to claim he never stopped and stared for longer than he should have. 

A fool even more so if he ever tried to convince anyone – including himself – their appearance hadn’t played its part in the initial stages of acquaintanceship.

As it turned out, Nanaba took notice of how he looked first.

“You’re outrageously tall.”  It’s not a reason, not exactly, but Mike can’t sit still any sooner than he can miss the genuine awe and envy in Nanaba’s tone.  “Super tall and super strong.  Everyone thinks you were born from giants, you know.”

“That was the running joke with my folks back home, too.”  He remembers the good-natured jibes.  Remembers the more wounding jabs as well: _mutant, freak of nature, illegitimate_ ; Mike decides against telling those things to Nanaba, though.  “And I’ve been a ‘giant’ for as long as I can remember.”

“How old are you supposed to be again?”

Twenty-one is the answer Mike wants to give.

“Twenty-eight,” he admits.  Lying is a terrible idea, Mike decides, around someone as sharp as Nanaba.  He might have a stronger sniffer than them but he sure as hell doesn’t have a pout to send the most aberrant of Abnormals to their knees. 

“Ten years apart,” Nanaba hums approvingly, an announcement that shouldn’t spark a simmering hope within him like it does.  “Well.  I guess that just proves some guys are just built big and stay big.”

Once they’ve rounded another corner and arrived in the private dormitories of the Legion’s officer base and their aura settles in the dust of the circlet of sugar-spun wreath of scents known as Nanaba, Mike decides he wants to say something, after all.

Decides he has to say something.

“Don’t worry,” Mike tells Nanaba, hands clasped to their shoulder.  “You’re already perfect.  So don’t try to change to match someone else’s standards.”

He’s always thought that way about Nanaba’s impromptu smiles, the descriptor nothing less than such.

He’s never been the type to regret speaking on a whim, on whatever flies his fleeting fancies.

He’s never smelled anything less than two scents around Nanaba at any given time until then— when Nanaba’s entire aura glistens with unadulterated and unmistakable flattery.

“Mike,” Nanaba hops in place, the practiced pout he expects relinquishing to the sheepish look that moves about the usual composition of their face, “has anybody ever told you that you’re a world-class sweetheart?”

“Coming from you,” there’s a wry twitch to Mike’s lips that’s impossible to hide, “that kind of compliment makes me anxious.”

“Hey,” Nanaba does pout, then, even if their chuckle belies how cross they actually are, “don’t make me take back what I said, you big bully.”

“Then don’t give me the runaround when I compliment you,” Mike quips, reaching down to smooth down the front of Nanaba’s windswept bangs, “you little tease.”

“Why, Mikey.”  Nanaba bats their lashes, faux-scandalized expression making Mike snort.  “I never knew you thought of me that way.”

Despite how pleasant and ever-present their company became while accompanying him on his walk back to his private quarters after training, Mike never noticed until now.

Despite how easy it was to get to know the Medic and how easy it was to exchange banter with them, it was until that chance moment of camaraderie that Mike realized.

Despite how unrelated Mike always viewed friendship and love, he takes a good long look at Nanaba and their uneven rows of teeth and the crook of their quirky little smile, and he’s not sure if they’re the water that submerges him in dark or whether they’re the sunshine and _he’s_ the water, sinking down, not into chilling nebulous shadows but a warm resonant color, the same azure color as their eyes—

“I don’t,” Mike laughs, lying through his teeth.  “But you’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

(Except Nanaba’s smile never does waver and neither does their gaze and Mikes wonders, even as they exchange their goodnights and goodbyes until the next time they partake in this weekly routine, if maybe Nanaba always knew.

If maybe he always knew someone would meet him and notice what a terrible liar he is.

If maybe he always had a little more trouble being honest with himself than with other people.)

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t even think to ask about Nanaba’s gender until they’ve well acquainted themself as a friend.

To his surprise, the question makes Nanaba _laugh_.

“You’re probably the first guy who’s ever asked,” the blond manages through their stifled giggles, “and didn’t look either confused, disgusted, or a mixture of both.”

Sitting atop the grassy hill that overlooks the training grounds as they were, Mike briefly considers the possibility that someone might be listening to them.

Then he decides that doesn’t matter, either.

“It doesn’t really matter to me.”  He didn’t mean it to come off so different, but Zoë always joked that his name was as straightforward as his personality.  “So I never thought it should affect how I treat you as a person.”

Mouth drawn into a taut line, Nanaba’s usual aromatic blend begins to fester and scatter, as does the milkweed twined about their fingertips. 

“If only more people thought like you do.”  The fondness in their remark is light but their sigh is heavy, rising with the entrails of regret and disappointment that reach Mike’s nose when they slump forward to lean their head in the space between their knees tucked together.  “So it ‘doesn’t matter’ to you, huh…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mike insists, a wary attempt to reassure to the desolate Nanaba.  “Girl or boy or neither, Nanaba’s still Nanaba.”

Whether it’s the childishness of his reasoning or the way he says it, Nanaba picks their head up.

They slide over to Mike so they can rest their cheek against his shoulder, the warmth of them tangible through his uniform jacket.

They wrap both arms around his arm, nudging themself closer and closer until Mike can’t move (not that he wants to, no, least of all when Nanaba smells so **nice** from this vicinity and he thinks – afraid of the thought more than anything – that if they never left this spot, stayed pressed together like children huddled under a makeshift tent and the tapestry of stars overhead, Mike would be perfectly happy) and it’s not the first time Mike’s ever vested so much hope in one person, one idea, but it’s the first time that person outside of his family hasn’t been Erwin or Zoë.

“Thank you,” Nanaba mumbles, their small fists closing around hard enough to raise bruises on his skin later; they repeat, again and again, in tremulous undertones.  “Thank you.”

“No,” Mike runs one palm through their hair, a soft stroke that ruffles the already unruly mane, “thank you.” 

“No,” Nanaba shakes their head, peering up at him through red-rimmed eyes with one of those winning smiles that Mike never could ignore, and clings to him that much tighter, “thank _you_.”

 

* * *

 

(Mike wants to tell Nanaba, wants to convey how grateful he is, wants Nanaba to know why it doesn’t matter to him, but he stays quiet while Nanaba rests their weary head on his shoulder and lets the rest of their doubts fall into the soundless stream of disappointment, water droplets dissolving into disenchantment, dripping onto the fabric of his jacket sleeve – and into the aching grooves of his heart instead.)

 

* * *

 

When Nanaba becomes Squad Leader, no one protests.

No one protests outright, at least.

Then again, the same phenomenon couldn’t be said for when Levi joined the Legion.

Or, later, when Erwin promoted Levi to Captain thanks to Major Pixis’s support.

Or, much later, when they took Eren under the Legion’s wings.

But those were separate issues, unrelated to why Erwin accepted Mike’s spontaneous suggestion to promote them.

The first: Nanaba’s scores – on both pre- and post-evaluative exams – were higher than some of their veteran scouts.

Testing them on their three-dimensional maneuvering abilities alone was a marvel all its own.  Nanaba was not gifted with natural athleticism nor the benefit of height like Mike, held no sort of natural affinity for flight and its machinations like Levi.

Nanaba, a natural perfectionist, refined every basic principle the gear had to offer and turned the most simplistic of motions into polished gems.

The second: Nanaba’s saving grace – and greatest downfall – was their predilection for talking.

Though far from a conversationalist like Erwin or a vast storehouse of knowledge like Zoë, Nanaba thrived in conversation.  Anyone who started out thinking the worst of them would leave with at least a reluctant admiration for their tenacity; anyone who started out trying to get the better of them would leave with at least a bruised ego for their valiant attempt.

Nanaba, a natural optimist, reveled in the opportunity to prove their worth as a Squad Leader among the scouts and the skeptics alike.

The third: Nanaba’s greatest ally – aside from Mike – was none other than Levi.

Sometimes, Mike liked to sit back and watch Nanaba while they interacted with the other officers of rank. 

It didn’t surprise him that Zoë adored sitting down to chat with Nanaba about everything from the benefits of umbrellas to the incongruities of a society-defined gender dichotomy.

It didn’t surprise him that Erwin’s generosity for old friends and associates extended to accepting Nanaba’s gender identity and even offered to petition their registered gender to be changed on record.

It didn’t surprise him that Henning and Rene and Gerger took to Nanaba like imprinting animals – though if anyone deserved the title of squad ‘mother hen,’ it was Mike, without a doubt.

It didn’t surprise that the more frequent their visits to the officer’s meeting rooms and the more customary it became to find Nanaba at Mike’s side, the less frequent the criticisms flew.

 

* * *

 

(What _did_ surprise Mike was that Levi, outspoken as the Captain was, rarely praised anyone aside from Erwin but – when Nanaba skipped into the meeting room one morning to announce their assist kill and solo kill count had doubled in the last month – Levi was the first to offer that odd grimace of a half-smile and remark _Titans better watch their ugly asses for a rising star, then._

Especially since Nanaba’s first impression of Levi, as they reported to Mike later the same evening, that _he practically bit my hand off when I tried to change_ _the Commander’s bandages_ after Erwin sustained such serious injuries on a debacle of an expedition that kept him unconscious for over three days and bedridden for seven going on eight.

But Nanaba was more than agreeable now while they scrambled around to Levi’s side of the table and tumbled into him for an open-armed hug while insisting that _the real star here is you, Little Levi,_ Mike doesn’t even realize he’s grinning something awful at the sight of them until Zoë nudges him from behind and Erwin brings the carafe and cups and tea over and all five of them toast to another day lived and another tomorrow yet to come.)

 

* * *

 

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, slight overcast sky and the weight of another expedition hanging overhead, when Mike figures it out.

It took three years, seven months, fifteen rising wagers on Erwin and Zoë’s part, two instances of raised eyebrows over Levi pushing Mike out the door as soon as the morning officer meeting finished so he could fumigate Erwin’s office (which, later, he would learn was a boldfaced lie and attached to plan that might have involved every one of the officers, not just Levi’s penchant for the unexpected and Erwin’s acquiescence for near all of Levi’s schemes) for it to happen.

But it happened.

It finally happened.

Starting with an innocuous inquiry that, in retrospect, should have been Mike’s first clue.

“So about how many people do you think,” Nanaba brings it up while they’re cloud-watching on that little hill overlooking the training grounds just past the stables, “know about Mister Smith and Little Levi?”

By that, Mike presumes, they mean their relationship.

“Trick question,” Mike shoots back.  “Those two are the worst kept secret in the Legion, if not the entire military, so pretty much everyone should know about them by now.”

“I didn’t.”  As soon as Nanaba says it, Mike turns to them and stares.  “Hey, in my defense, I thought it was a one-sided thing at first.”

“At first,” echoes Mike, watching Nanaba move from reclining in seamless transitions: stomach down, elbows propped, palms tucked under their chin and an idle swing of their lower legs.  “I think it was, for Erwin, back when he first brought Levi here.” 

“Really?”  Unflappable as ever, Nanaba picks at lawn space closer to Mike on his back with a thoughtful hum.  “I always pegged it for the other way around.”

“Mmm?”

“What I mean is,” Nanaba goes on to say, interpreting Mike’s noncommittal noise (correctly) as an call for clarification, “isn’t Levi the one who has Erwin wrapped around those cute little fingers of his, not the other way around?”

“I’m not sure what’s worse.”  Mike sputters.  “The fact that you’re calling Levi cute or the fact that I’m imagining it now.”

“He’s a cute and tiny little cat,” Nanaba maintains.  “Tiny hands and feet but big on muscle.”

“A real study in contrasts, that one.”  Remembering the week previous when, bringing the new 104th graduates out for an impromptu group sparring session, Levi had joined in the competition and entered the fray only after every one of the scout’s jaws dropped over the Captain’s battle-worn and exercise-sculpted form.  “Erwin’s not looking too bad these days, either, now that he’s started building up some definition again training with Levi on weekends.”

“You mean ‘training’ with Levi,” Nanaba smirks, tittering, and Mike _sneers_.  “They’re ridiculously happy together, though.”

“They are,” Mike agrees.  He’s noticed that much.  Anyone with eyes would. 

“I guess,” Nanaba inhales, their exhale swift and unnervingly soon thereafter, “I’m happy for them.”

Mike blinks fast.

 “You guess?”

“Well—”  Discomfited, Nanaba fiddles with the fraying grass blades in their hands, weaving and braiding them together only to pull them apart again.  “I guess I’m a little jealous, too.  Over how happy they are.”

What leaves Mike next is a baffled grunt.

“You fancy Levi, then?”

“ **No** ,” Nanaba squawks, so offended that they recoil as quickly as Mike does. “Levi’s like a baby brother to me, gosh, I’d never even dream of—”

“What about,” Mike ventures, trying his best not to sound accusing as his suspicion grows, “Erwin?”

“Excuse me, but you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I’ve got a big brother complex,” Nanaba snorts, rolling their eyes at him outright.  “Don’t get me wrong: Mister Smith’s a real hunk.  But well-dressed and well-bred guys don’t do anything for me.”

“Then,” what leaves him in doubt more than ever emerges as a baffled grunt, “what _does_ do it for you?”

From the first smile to that moment’s smile, Nanaba’s never once let their eyes fall shut.

As if they were trying to take in the sight of the receiving party.

As if they were intent on concentrating their every effort to presenting themself just so.

As if they were afraid of the consequences of leaving their heart vulnerable.

“I like consistency.  Constancy.  Someone I can laugh with and laugh at because they’d do the same for me.”  If they’re embarrassed to talk about it, it never shows.   “Someone who’s comfortable with the person I am, the person I strive to be, and not just the idealized version of me.”

It doesn’t show, that is, until they stop to catch their breath.

“Honestly,” Nanaba says, eyes falling shut as their teeth click together over the slight flick of their tongue over dry lips as they smile, “the only person I can think of who’d do that for me is someone like you.”

His first reaction – when he meets Nanaba’s gaze and the sunshine in their slowly opening eyes almost blinds – was a single thought: _someone like me._

His second reaction – an unspoken, unbidden flutter – flows from sudden understanding: _it could be me._

The third reaction – an internalized, private one – was a chastisement, sinking into a hollow corner of his chest: _but it could be someone like me_.

(Of course.  Why would someone like him – clumsy and coarse and inarticulate and eccentric and temperamental and big-boned and awkward – ever be someone Nanaba would want?)

Only Nanaba isn’t finished.

“That was what I thought,” they laugh, and Mike suddenly wants to snap at them, inches over with a glower that borderlines a scowl until the rough pads of their pretty berry-stained fingertips trace the stubble at his jawline and his mouth turns to cotton and he thinks to himself, _wait, wait, **wait** , _all whilst his impatient heart starts respiring overtime, “up until I saw you on my third day here at the Legion and saw you smile for the first time when Zoë dragged you over to meet with Mister Smith and I kept hoping I’d get to see you again but it wasn’t until you got brought into the infirmary that I had a the perfect chance to talk to you and I realized…”

Mike doesn’t even realize he’s been waiting with bated breath until he feels Nanaba’s ghost against his face, so close that leaning in feels more pretense than anything.

“What’d you realize,” he asks, once they’ve trailed off and fidgeted in his arms and they exhale in a soft breathless little giggle, and the silly nicknames, the comfort of their companionship,  the yearning that yanked at a corner of his chest all this time suddenly made sense, “Nana?”

When Nanaba leans in close, Mike leans in closer.

When their lips brush, it’s not Nanaba’s touch to his arm that urges him even closer but their hesitantly widening smile that mirrors his own.

 

* * *

 

When he closes his eyes to kiss them properly – harder, gentler, warmer, sweeter – and their acceptance, bringing out his in turn, is answer enough.

 


End file.
